


Keep Steady

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Reference to the deleted scene where Draco gives Harry his wand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harry doesn't talk. Draco doesn't sleep. Together, they heal.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in years and the first Harry Potter fanfic I've ever written. I'm kind of feeling things out as they go along, hope you enjoy!

The nightmares came every night now. Harry wasn’t surprised about that, but the onslaught having only begun recently did go against his expectations. There had been a period of numbness immediately after Voldemort’s defeat, a floating through court proceedings and dogged _Prophet_ attempts at interview, an endless parade of well-wishes from an endless parade of well-wishers; but these just served as mild punctuations during his long, long, long stretches of dreamless sleep. Hermione said this was completely normal – said this as she rubbed the dark circles under her eyes with the balls of her hands, Ron still clinging to her like a lifeline during his own disturbed sleep.

They had taken to sleeping in a cramped pillow fort on the floor of Ron’s room at the Burrow. Eighteen years old, the lot of them, but being on the run had meant they woke up drenched in sweat if they couldn’t immediately feel or find each other in the dark. It was temporary, they knew – the three of them were returning to Hogwarts after the summer – but the after-war transition meant they were still on edge, still gasping awake at any small sound the house made around them.

Weirdly, Harry’s nightmares weren’t anything that anyone might have predicted. He had seen blood, bodies, flashes of green light; these were as familiar to him as the sounds of his friends’ voices. Instead, he dreamt his flickering body stood – or floated? – in a void of bright white light, not unlike his between-life-and-death King’s Cross purgatory. There were no trains here though, and no-one to pose him any difficult moral questions. He was alone, and he wasn’t even sure he was there himself, what with his body wavering in and out of existence. Harry wasn’t sure why, but that nothingness terrified him more than any corporeal horror could have at that point.

He would sleep through it, was the worst part – hours of floating, doing nothing, no-one there. When he woke up to the sunlight streaming through the window, the same as always – as if no war had happened, as if no one had died – the reassurance of his friends still being there and alive could only marginally slow down the rapid beating of his heart.

Harry wasn’t sure if he would be able to handle this for long. Ron and Hermione had recently started seeing a mind-healer – Ron at Hermione’s urging – and they had both said that it had been helping to mitigating their – what had the mind-healer called it? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? But, and Harry laughed mirthlessly at this, his uncle’s frequently barked mantra of “Shut up and don’t ask questions!” had returned to embed itself deep into Harry’s heart. He was quieter nowadays. Molly had taken to feeding him more and more to fill the empty space where talking would be. Ginny had taken to turning away from him with a lost expression in her eyes.

They were all looking for something from him, a distant part of him realised, and they were doing it all unconsciously. He recognised it from other people too; they expected answers from him, as if he was their messiah. What do we do now? What is our new normal? Now the celebrations have ended and the dead are buried, how do we fill this aching void in our lives? Harry, what do we do about Fred, about Lupin, about Tonks, about Mad Eye, about Lavender, about Colin Creevey, about about about…

Ron and Hermione were the only people who asked nothing from him. They would often sit with him on the hill that overlooked the Burrow and be quiet with him. The first time they did this, Harry realised how desperately he loved them. They were his family, and he would be alright. They all would, eventually. Right now, he needed to think and be quiet and have these nightmares and spend time with his friends and eat Molly’s cooking and listen to Arthur’s updates about the outside world and play with Teddy until he was ready to speak again. He knew this with the same detached familiarity that told him that the reason people looked at him with that desperation in their eyes was because they felt the same as him; sometimes, the thought of continuing scared him too.

Ron and Hermione had each other. This was something else he realised, with the same dull ache in his heart that told him he didn’t have this with Ginny. She understood, of course she did, and she had her own healing to do. She had kissed him for the last time at the beginning of August as they wound their way round the fields of the Burrow.

Returning to Hogwarts had seemed impossible to him at one point, but more recently, as summer started to draw to a close, the prospect seemed more and more attractive; after all, Hogwarts was the first place he had ever been able to call home. McGonagall had assured the students that the castle would be ready to open its doors come September; it wanted so desperately to protect the people inside that it had repaired itself at a speed almost unimaginable. Magic, it seemed, wanted to heal. If, Harry thought, I was back in Hogwarts, maybe I could heal too.

*

Draco Malfoy was escorted to Platform 9 ¾ with a guard of Aurors, a cavalcade of _Prophet_ reporters, and his anxious mother in tow. It seemed that publicly switching sides during the climax of a brutal war – throwing your wand to the Saviour of the Wizarding World no less – altered public perception of you like nothing other. Draco Malfoy: Misunderstood and Manipulated due to his Draconian Father’s influence. Draco Malfoy: the Hidden Victim of Voldemort’s Reign of Terror. Draco Malfoy: Redeemed.

It made him sick.

How his father had taken the brunt of the family’s punishment and exile made him hate himself with an acuity that surpassed even his sixth year, when the Dark Mark had first been branded onto his semi-reluctant skin. Yes, he was a victim of his circumstances. Yes, he had been born and bred with prejudice drip-fed to him from the very first. But, it had always been him spewing those vile thoughts. It had always been him controlling and torturing those people. It had always been him who – just the thought made bile bubble up into his throat.

What was he even doing here? _The Prophet_ was documenting his triumphant return to Hogwarts with a fervour only exacerbated by Harry Potter’s recent transformation into a recluse. No-one knew if Potter was going to return as an eighth year like the other twelve luminaries, three of whom already had their own pockets of paparazzi buzzing around them as they tried to board the Hogwarts Express. Granger was a given, Weasley a fifty-fifty. But Potter was where the story was. And until one of the three showed up, Draco had to staunchly ignore the reporters who scuttled alongside him, fawning, sycophantic. It was only for his mother’s sake that he put on pleasantries. If it wasn’t for her requesting him to comply, in order for them to regain some semblance of respectability in magical society, he would not be here right now, parading around like a fraud. Though, honestly, if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t be here at all.

Draco shook his head with an aggression that sent the cameras flashing. Ignoring his mother’s startled look, he made his way to the rear carriage of the train, a sea of faces parting for him. Some people looked at him in awe, some in hatred. Good. He was glad there were still those who despised him. He did not want to be let off the hook that easily. His life had been an endless series of stupid mistakes and he was sharply aware of his need to be punished for each and every one of them.

Far from the exercise in healing, reconciliation and new beginnings that the eighth year cohort was supposed to represent, Draco felt that his return to Hogwarts would be a year-long punishment for his misdeeds. He fully intended to complete this year, graduate a hermit, and, after an appropriate time had passed and his mother was once again fully integrated into wizarding society, fade into obscurity. Then, he would disappear altogether.

He had formulated this plan during his fortnight-long bed rest after attempting to burn down Malfoy Manor. _The Prophet_ had reported this as a rogue Death Eater trying to get revenge. Well, for once they were right. Draco had lay in the spare bedroom, staring up at the canopy of the four-poster, his hands still stained with ash. Those curtains, at least, were not the opulent green velvet and silver brocade of his youth; instead, they were a generic burgundy, faded with age enough to boast, subtly, to any guests staying of the family’s wealth and antiquity.

His mother had forced him into bed rest and plied him with calming potions and draughts that settled his mind enough to calm down, though he was not able to sleep properly. When she realised this, she placed a poultice on his head and draped chamomile and lavender around his bed frame; a magic even older than his family name. Draco still couldn’t sleep, but he drifted into a state of comfortable numbness, enough to allow him to ghost through his days, drinking little and eating almost nothing.

He would do this for his mother. His father was no longer an option, and Draco had enough filial piety in his heart to make sure his mother would suffer no more than she already had. When she had stood up in court, had proudly said, head held high, how she had defied the Dark Lord, how she had cast his wishes aside completely to make sure her son was safe, love and devotion flared deep in Draco’s chest. The intensity of which was comparable only to that of Lucius’s screams of “ _traitor_!” from where he was manacled in the docks.

Lucius, steadfast in his faith to Voldemort, had taken his turn in the stand to state, coldly, staring across the crowds and straight into the eyes of his only child, that he would rather Draco have died loyal than live on as a coward, a defector, an embarrassment to the family name. The eruption from the crowds solidified Draco and Narcissa’s changed reputations as unwilling participants to the Dark Lord’s cause; people to be pitied instead of reviled. And Lucius? The villain. On par almost with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. Throw him into Azkaban, Kiss him and let him rot and fester.

Draco wasn’t sure why exactly, but the almost universal pardoning of himself made him disgusted. The pity burned his stomach with acrid acidity. He needed – he craved – the hatred from others. He saw it slightly in some of the faces peppered in the crowds now, and he felt a sensation inside, almost of contentment, when he saw them. These would have to be his pinpoints of light this year, he decided, until they grew bored of him again.

He kissed his mother goodbye and entered the rear carriage of the Express. As it shut behind him, a sudden quietness washed over him, making him release a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. He steeled himself to open the door to the assigned eighth year compartment – assigned in the hopes of sprouting inter-house unity before they even entered the castle grounds. With any luck, he would be the first one there.

Of course, he wouldn’t have any such luck. In fact he was almost the last one there; Longbottom, Thomas and Finnigan sat with the Patil twins, Abbott, Finch-Fletchley and Bones. It seemed that, along with the Patil girl, only one other Ravenclaw had returned, as Goldstein milled amongst them. Belatedly, he realised that the eighth years still on the platform were all Slytherins, probably doing exactly what he was doing in trying to present a brave face to the papers. And of course, the Golden Trio were there, sequestered in the corner as usual, part of the group but also not-quite.

A horrible feeling lurched from Draco’s stomach into his throat – he was going to throw up. He wavered in the doorway as the entire compartment stopped what they were doing and looked at him. He gripped the doorway infinitesimally more tightly, hovering between entering and running away completely, his vision tunnelling. This had happened only once before, just after he had set his bed curtains on fire and panicked, his heart thudding in his chest with such rapidity he felt he was going to die.

They must have realised, because suddenly Longbottom was on his feet and manoeuvring him from the doorway and into the empty corridor, closing the door behind him.

“Just breathe,” he was saying, but Draco thought this voice was coming from somewhere far away. “Breathe in for five, breathe out for seven…”

Eventually, Draco’s mind took over and he started following Longbottom’s instructions, counting with him as he controlled his breathing, allowing it to fill up his chest slowly, letting his eyes fall shut as he listened to Longbottom’s calm voice.

It felt like hours afterwards when Draco finally felt the strength give out in his legs and he sank slowly, sliding down the wall until he crouched onto the ground.

“What just happened?” he croaked blearily, suddenly acutely embarrassed that there were tears pricking at his eyes.

“Has that ever happened before?” Longbottom asked.

“Once.”

Longbottom thumped down on the ground next to him and sighed.

“I think you’ve just had a panic attack.”

“What?”

“It’s when your body goes into overdrive and you start feeling all this fear. Your mind gets overwhelmed when you’re in stressful situations and it starts overacting. It’s a normal response… when you’ve been through tough stuff.”

After some long moments, Draco asked, “Do you get them too?”

“Not so much,” he replied vaguely. “But I know plenty who do. I’ve gotten used to dealing with them.”

Draco didn’t say anything. With his adrenaline rush receding, he felt horribly humiliated and needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. What the hell had he been thinking, believing he could handle this? What the hell was he trying to prove?

Longbottom must have picked up on this because, concerned, he started to ask, “Malfoy, are you-"

“Draco? What the hell happened?!” Daphne Greengrass appeared in his peripheral vision and dropped down next to him, grabbing him by his shoulder.

Groaning, Draco batted her away. “I’m alright, Daph, don’t worry, I-"

“What did you _do_ to him?” she growled, glaring at Longbottom.

“No, Daphne, no it wasn’t him. Just drop it, okay?” Draco began to rise to his feet. Seeing her sceptical look, he added. “I mean it. Please.”

It came out almost like a sigh. It almost shocked him how exhausted he sounded. Blinking in surprise, Daphne quickly recovered and hooked her arm in his, drawing him protectively close. “Of course. Are you going in? We’ll go in together.”

“Give me a second, yeah? I need to just… sort myself out.”

Draco glanced at Longbottom, who nodded at him and, patting him once on his shoulder, went back into the compartment.

“Do you want to wait for the others before going in?” Daphne asked. Draco nodded once, and then started to clean himself up, rubbing the tears from his eyes as Daphne pointedly started to busy herself with her bag.

Honestly, now that the panic had subsided, Draco was able to examine it with a clarity that he had been developing over the past few months. Thinking about it, he had probably had this, or something like it, happen before in sixth year, when he would lock himself in the girls’ bathroom with only a ghost to soothe his sobbing. Before, however, he had been able to hide it away, keep his feelings far far away from anyone else to scrutinise and inspect. But now, everyone had seen.

There was something so shameful in having lost it in front of everyone. He felt weak, exposed and vulnerable, and the thought of that terrified him. And then, a thought came to him in full force: Potter had seen. It almost winded him in its severity. He did not know why, out of all the people who could have seen him, _Potter_ knowing so desperately horrified him, but he felt smaller than he ever had in his life. Smaller than when Potter had rejected him way back in first year. He felt tiny and so unlike himself. But then, when had he last felt like himself?

After a while he dimly registered that Zabini and Goyle had arrived. Daphne had spoken to them in hushed tones as Draco pressed his forehead against the cool, darkened train window, collecting himself. 

“You alright, mate?” Zabini asked once Draco turned to face him.

He was about to respond when he realised he didn’t actually know how to speak to them anymore. There was a space between him and the three other Slytherins. They stood only a few steps away from each other but it stretched out like a yawning chasm between them, the space between full of suspicion as they sized each other up. They were eyeing him wearily, like cornered animals; though he registered he was probably doing the same. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen any of them.

Zabini’s family had avoided the brunt of the furore after the war because of their ambivalence during the height of Voldemort’s power. In fact, both his parents had absconded to their second home in Italy for the duration of Zabini’s seventh year; Zabini only attended Hogwarts due to his relative safety as a pure blood. They had never aligned themselves with either the Ministry or the Dark Lord, believing themselves above it all.

Goyle, on the other hand, had benefited from the patronisingly forgiving reaction to Draco’s situation. He, too, was painted as a casualty of parental circumstance, though with the added edge of a generally accepted lack of intelligence on his part. Goyle knew this, not being as stupid as everyone believed, but Crabbe’s death had sobered him. He had lost his fight and his pride, and he accepted his position just as easily as he used to follow Draco’s footsteps before. Draco was a poor, sorry victim, and now so was he. His presence here reminded Draco of just how much he needed to suffer. Crabbe was gone, and now Goyle was here, a grey shadow cast over him, and he had to take responsibility for both.

Draco remembered his mother, remembered her standing tall in the stands and saying proudly, the Slytherin flowing out of her, that loyalty was always her first object; she would do anything if it meant keeping her family safe. Seeing his three – friends? Housemates? – in front of him, he stood taller. Wordlessly, he nodded, and a shared moment between them all made them all visibly relax, their shoulders untensed. Whatever the others had been waiting for from Draco they managed to find, and Zabini was the first one to move forward with an outstretched hand. Goyle hesitated, barely, but enough for Draco to register and feel a cool stab in his gut.

Though it had felt like an age out in the corridor, in actuality it was more like twenty-five minutes. Long enough for the shame of making a scene to have grown and implanted itself firmly in Draco’s mind, but also long enough for his long-practiced ability of putting on his mask to kick back in. There was an art to artifice that all pure blood families of their status were well versed in. He was aware of it as Daphne straightened her shoulders, as Goyle puffed his chest out. Zabini affected an air of arrogance, and Draco himself settled into boredom.

Beyond the compartment door was a room of unknown; whether those inside would be enemies or allies was the question that bound the four of them together in their own alliance. It was both strong and tenuous at the same time – against the rest of Hogwarts the four would stand solid, but between them Draco knew there were cracks. The larger part of him felt the appropriateness of having those damaged foundations. A year, he thought. Just a year, and then I’ll be gone.

*

When the door opened again Harry was only slightly surprised that the four Slytherin eight years were there together, though in retrospect he shouldn’t have been. The rest of the eight years had arrived two hours earlier than the scheduled Express departure time in order to avoid the inevitable crowds. In that time, they had spread themselves out across the magically enchanted compartment in an excellent imitation of a House common room.

“Do you believe all this stuff about Malfoy and Goyle and the other Slytherins?” Seamus said after a while. He and Ron had already waylaid the cart witch and were now pouring over chocolate frogs, delighting when Ron found a trading card of himself.

“What stuff?” Hermione asked.

“That they’re victims, changed, that kind of thing.”

The other eighth years quietened what they were doing at this point and looked towards Harry. He realised that they were waiting for his verdict: at his say so the Slytherins could be accepted with open arms or cast aside forever. The pressure of this decision had already started to weigh on him when Hermione momentarily rested her hand on his.

“Everyone did things they weren’t proud of,” she said shortly.

Ron made a huff as he got up from the floor and stretched, before moving to plonk himself on Harry’s other side.

“Way I see it,” he started. “The war is over. I’m tired of fighting. And I’m sure even Malfoy is too.”

There was a finality to Ron’s tone that settled things for the rest of the students. If even Ron could forgive them, then what had the rest to worry for? Some of them already had reached the same conclusions as Ron and Hermione– Neville, Hannah, even Susan, who could have been easily justified for any cynicism – but the few others who still remained sceptical seemed able to let go following their lead. Besides, after a war, holding grudges just felt so pointless and petty. Like others, the thought of fighting left them exhausted. It was far easier right now to let go.

This had been brought into sharp relief when they saw Draco Malfoy himself crumble so quickly and perceptibly in front of them. How were they supposed to hate anyone who looked so utterly defeated? Neville had been the first to move to help, but when he shut the door behind them, a silent agreement passed through the rest of the eighth years – no one was to bring this up again, not if Malfoy didn’t first. To crow victory over him after seeing that would feel hollow and exploitative; the papers positioned them as beacons of the winning side, championing morality and love and magnanimity. Even if that came easier to some than others, and even if that left a tasteless, superficial flavour in their mouths, no one could shake off the responsibility they felt at having to be forgiving.

Thank god for Justin’s pompousness, because when he stood up, brushed his hands on his trousers and extended his arm to shake hands with Malfoy when the Slytherins entered, it was just farcical enough to completely break the tension in the room. They all broke into cackling laughter at him as he looked round wildly in confusion, and Ron threw a Pumpkin Pastry at Malfoy by way of welcome that he caught with a seeker’s muscle memory. The Slytherins were startled into laughing also and, surprised at the almost-friendly reception, somewhat awkwardly sat down in a corner of the compartment, themselves part of the group but also not-quite.

Throughout all of this, Harry realised, Malfoy didn’t look at him once. He affected nonchalance but his eyes darted round like a frightened animal, his shoulders tense as if he expected attack at any moment. Harry knew that feeling well and searched for Malfoy’s eyes across his friends’ more than once during the duration of the train journey. Whether purposefully or not, Malfoy avoided his gaze. A funny feeling settled in the pit of Harry’s stomach. It was a distant feeling, reminiscent of something from the past, a need for something, some kind of recognition. Or perhaps it was something missing; the sharp jibes that characterised the seven years of their knowing was absent and Harry felt it keenly.

Malfoy looked like how Harry felt. A grey cast had settled over him and his sharp features had grown even sharper over the course of the summer. He looked, and moved, almost like a ghost. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if, just like his dream-self, Malfoy began to flicker in and out of existence. Maybe it was an echo triggered by this thought, but Harry felt a spike of sudden panic and felt the need to grab onto Malfoy, shake him and drag him back into reality. And then just as sudden Harry realised what he was thinking and, embarrassed of his staring, shook himself, grabbed a chocolate frog from Ron’s hoard, and stuffed it into his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

After the Sorting Ceremony, Professor McGonagall had called for a minute’s silence. Everyone, from the wide-eyed and terrified, newly-sorted first years, to the bedraggled looking sevenths, bowed their heads to an eerie quiet that didn’t suit the Great Hall. In those quiet spaces were the names of all those who were no longer there. Ceremonial empty chairs were left dotted around the tables – an unspoken agreement amongst all the students. Even at the staff table there remained gaps. Fifty empty spaces where people should have been. Even with the usual vast piles of food, the feast that year was a sombre affair.

“Hogwarts,” McGonagall began after the students had all put down their knives and forks. “Has always been more than just a school. It has been a home to all students and staff – every single person who has passed through these halls have always found a place to return. Many, many brave people and creatures died to keep Hogwarts, and its inhabitants, safe. We should always remember and honour their memories.”

A murmuring of agreement and short smattering of applause broke out in the hall.

“Hogwarts has also always been a place of hope where people have always been given the chance to be the very best wizard they could be. Where you have found light and support in places you might never have expected. I am sure I am not the only one to have found a family here with you all. A family, not divided by creed or colour. And this is why,” she continued, standing up to her greatest height. “No longer shall we be divided amongst house lines.”

A few shocked gasps of “What?” could be heard, and McGonagall waited for the hubbub to quieten down before she carried on. Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged glances from where the eighth years had been asked to wait at the back after they had eaten. Ron looked as concerned as Harry probably did, but Hermione nodded her head in understanding. The Slytherins, he noticed, looked decidedly grim. Malfoy was staring at the head table unblinkingly, his mouth set into a tight line.

“Do not misunderstand,” McGonagall said, putting her hand up for peace. “The Houses shall still remain. After all, they have always been useful for – _friendly_ – competition, and I would be the last person to dismantle Quidditch ,” she said, suppressing a wry smile.

“But,” she continued. “This Great Hall has seen many a loss, and as you can see around you, these are losses we will feel keenly for a very long time. And so, in order to transform this Hall from a place of loss, and to restore it to the grandeur and the place of happiness and friendship it should be, we shall no longer be divided along house lines.”

At this, the headmistress lifted her wand, and in unison, the rest of the Hogwarts staff followed suit. There was a cacophony of excitement as students scrabbled off their seats and the long tables gently rose into the air and began to spin high above their heads, separating, transforming and transfiguring in front of their eyes. Students dove out the way to avoid spinning tablecloths and zooming cutlery – any student too slow to move was whisked away by invisible forces, narrowly avoiding airborne bread rolls and waterfalls of pumpkin juice, pitchers and jugs bobbing merrily behind them.

Harry loved magic. Students, who only moments ago looked grave and scared, broke out into laughter at the sudden quasi-obstacle course, jumping and diving and suddenly looking like kids again. As he saw Neville do a particularly impressive drop and roll to avoid a whole roast turkey, he caught sight of Malfoy bent over and laughing in a particularly un-Malfoyish way, harder than Harry had ever seen in his life. Next to him, Goyle stood utterly nonplussed, the remains of an apricot and cream pie dripping down his face. The breath caught in Harry’s throat at the sight of Malfoy looking so… normal. He was so distracted he only managed to jump out of the way of a riotous tornado of treacle tarts just in the nick of time.

“Oi! Pay attention, Harry!” Ron called as he valiantly shielded Hermione from a river of butterbeer.

The magical foodfight finished after less than three minutes and the students started to emerge from their makeshift battlements, blinking into the sudden tranquillity like startled moles in the daylight. The Great Hall now looked more ready for a banquet or a wedding; the tables, instead of in four long rows, were now dotted across the hall in circles seating roughly ten each. There were no longer any discernible House lines, instead, the banners and colours draped the hall in a chaos that brought brightness and gaiety to the formally staid grandeur.

The whole incident and result was decidedly un-McGonagallish, but as Harry saw the results, he realised the genius of the entire thing. A first year Hufflepuff appeared from behind a protective third year Gryffindor, and two fifth year Slytherins had joined a group of Ravenclaws to fashion a barricade from a transfigured table; together they transformed the barricade into a round table and settled it amongst the others.

“How brilliant,” Hermione unknowingly echoed from next to him as she proceeded to vanish the butterbeer out of Ron’s sodden hair.

“Take this as an opportunity,” McGonagall called, clapping her hands together. “Discover comrades, friends, allies, where you may not have thought to look before. Now, students new and old, I am sure you have much to catch up on - to bed!”

*

The eighth years had been given their own common room, and, in what was rapidly turning out to be the new theme, it was round. The common room was situated deep in the heart of Hogwarts with four towering windows encompassing the opposite wall to the entrance, each one enchanted to show a different season. It was a mishmash of school colours: a Gryffindor banner hung across the entryway, with a large, ornate Slytherin tapestry covering one wall. Above the merrily crackling fireplace hung the Hufflepuff colours, with Ravenclaw adorning with windowpieces. The centrepiece of all this was the beautifully elaborate artwork of the four houses, covering the floor. Plush armchairs, low tables and fat floor cushions were scattered about. The common room was in a delightful state of disorder and a warm chaos, a feeling like they were already living there. It reminded Harry somewhat of the Burrow – that embedded feeling of home that you couldn’t quite put your finger on of what it was. Half the students threw themselves in whatever soft furnishings they could find as the other half raised a sceptical eyebrow to the bedlam.

“C’mon, you lot!” Seamus said, chucking an antique-looking cushion at Justin. “Stop pretending to be posh twats and relax!”

“I’m not pretending to be a posh twat,” Justin said as he supressed a smirk. He caught the projectile and smacked Seamus over the head with it. “I _am_ a posh twat.”

“Yes well, as posh as your twats are, I want to go have a look at our new rooms,” Daphne sniffed, feigning annoyance. “Are we still sharing?”

An arched doorway, identical to the one they had entered through, led off from the left hand side of the room. Through there was a modest sized corridor with eight rooms on each side, each doorway adorned with a little plaque with the presumed owner’s name. The end of the corridor had another window, but this one ostensibly was not enchanted, considering its view of the starry night sky outside.

“Bloody hell it’s like a TARDIS in here,” Dean said as he entered.

“What’s a TARDIS?” Ron asked.

“Never mind.”

Harry found his door, second from the last, and examined his plaque. A small, roaring Hippogriff accompanied his name. He smiled as he thought of Sirius and swallowed rapidly when his throat tightened.

Hermione’s room was on the left to Harry’s, Ron’s to the right and opposite was Malfoy’s. A carving of a resting unicorn, protectively curled around the name ‘Draco’, hung on his door.

“Excuse me,” came a low voice behind him, making Harry almost jump.

With an awkward, aborted movement of his shoulder, Harry stepped away from Malfoy’s door as the latter squeezed past, deliberately avoiding looking at Harry.

Malfoy paused momentarily, surveying the carving of his name, before entering his room and closing the door firmly behind him.

Harry stared at closed door. A part of him felt like knocking on the door, demanding Malfoy come out and at least look at him, though he wasn’t himself sure why. It just felt odd. Malfoy had spent every year since they were eleven being an absolute pain in the arse and he felt a weird sense of absence with Malfoy not trying to needle or harass him anymore. Well, that wasn’t true – the same thing had happened during sixth year, and that year the tables had been turned and Harry had been the one trying to follow Malfoy everywhere. At least then he had a reason for it; he had been sure, and he had been validated in the end, that Malfoy was up to something. But now he didn’t think that. Whether that was because Malfoy had truly changed or because Harry was far too tired now to think the worst of anyone, he didn’t know. But what he did know is that Malfoy wouldn’t even look at him, and that made him feel off-kilter in a way he could not explain.

“Hey Harry!” Ron popped his head out of the door of his own room, startling Harry out of his reverie. “Have you seen your room yet?”

Harry had expected something much like the common room: comfortable chaos. Instead, the room was simple and cosy. It was about the same size as Dudley’s second bedroom back in Privet Drive (his old room, he supposed, though he found it difficult to think of it that way), with a snug looking double bed with far too many quilts and blankets, a wardrobe – his suitcase already next to it – and a small desk pushed up under the window. He went over and looked outside to a pretty lovely view of the Forbidden Forest on the other side of the grounds, Hagrid’s hut just on the outside, windows glowing and smoke belching out of its little chimney.

A quick peek into Ron and Hermione’s rooms confirmed that each room was much the same.

“Why all the blankets?” Ron asked, picking at them as the three of them sat on Hermione’s bed.

“They’re comforting, I think,” Hermione said. “The weight of blankets can help some people sleep better.”

There was a quiet pause.

“What’s it going to be like, tonight?” Ron asked the air.

“I suppose we should try to sleep,” Hermione replied. “We’re all next to each other, which will hopefully help. If nothing else, it’ll help us knowing each other is there.”

Neither of them said anything but they both surreptitiously looked at Harry, who sat in the corner of the bed and the wall and stared out the window.

“Harry…” Hermione broached. “Will it be okay?”

Harry turned to look at them, and then at the door. He knew what she was asking but he didn’t have an answer. He knew, logically, that he needed to start breaking free from them, if only a little. Really, he should start speaking again too. But just the thought of either made him feel absolutely bone tired – deep in his inner core he just felt drained. Sometimes, he felt like he really had died in the forest that day. Ever since then he walked through life like a ghost, eating and sleeping if only to keep himself alive. He knew he had to keep moving forward, knew it with the same kind of clarity he would tell any of his friends.

Belatedly, he realised the way he thought about himself sometimes was like he was a different entity altogether; he could see himself from the outside and he urged himself to move and breathe and carry on because – well, he cared about himself, didn’t he? Or, he cared about everyone else, and he had enough self-acuity to know how it would affect everyone who loved him if he gave up completely. Besides, he didn’t want to give up; it would feel like such a waste after everything he had gone through. But he didn’t feel like himself, not just yet. He didn’t want to give up, but he wasn’t really sure what that meant exactly anymore. There wasn’t anything driving him forward any more than pure pig-headedness, really. He supposed that came as a side effect of living on borrowed time. For all intents and purposes, he was only supposed to live until seventeen. That he was still alive was sheer dumb luck. A coincidence due to other people’s egos and Machiavellian manoeuvrings and now no one was pulling his strings anymore, he felt terribly, horribly lost.

Hermione had once said he had a saving people thing. After, some people swore he had a death wish. He didn’t agree with that exactly – the prospect of being alive was really more than he could have ever wished for, really, and he didn’t want to give that up. But Harry realised that he had no idea really how to be alive. For some reason, this was the thought that frightened him completely.

*

Draco felt like his blankets were trying to smother him. The eighth year dorms were completely different to the almost industrial simplicity of the Slytherin dungeons; it was the realm of cosy and comfortable and with the general air that you could wake up on any given day to the scent of freshly baked ginger biscuits. Draco, who had never been used to _quaint,_ felt totally uncomfortable and unable to get any rest.

He was under no impression that he would be able to sleep per se, but his mind needed a break. He had strung up the bunches of lavender, chamomile and valerian as his mother had instructed, and he had placed the letter she had written to give to Madame Pomfrey on top of his desk ready to deliver in the morning. He had toyed with the idea of throwing it away but the minute his mother caught wind of this plan she berated him with such fierce intensity that it had reminded him why most people had, between Lucius and his mother, always feared the latter more.

Draco threw the blankets off and pulled on his nightgown. If he was lucky the house-elves would have kept the fire slightly ablaze and no one would be in the common room to disturb him. He padded into the quiet corridor and snorted, realising he could distinctly hear three different kinds of snoring (one of them, he was sure, was coming from Bones’s room, which amused him greatly – she was such a delicate looking thing).

He sunk himself into the squishy armchair near the mercifully still-crackling fireplace. He supposed the aesthetics of their eighth year’s dormitory was here a boon; what they lacked in elegance, at least here he felt as if he could settle his mind for a bit. Draco had to supress a mirthless bark of laughter; he was talking like a wizened grandfather already.

A clatter behind him alerted Draco to another presence in the room. Merlin, obviously Potter would be here causing a ruckus and disturbing his peace. He just couldn’t catch a break, could he? The last person he wanted to see sat sideways on the windowsill like the moody hero from a Celestina Warbeck song, staring morosely into the enchanted winter wonderland beyond. It was almost enough to pique a sardonic comment from his lips, but Draco quashed that thought as soon as it started to rise.

He started to get up from his armchair to return to bed when Potter turned his head to look at him. Draco had been trying incredibly hard to avoid this, hoping to postpone this encounter for at least a week – a month if he was lucky. However, Draco was rapidly realising that he had run out of his fair share of luck sometime around the time he was sixteen. His left arm twinged at this thought and he supressed any recognition that might show on his face.

Draco felt so grossly ashamed standing in front of Potter now. It was a deeply unpleasant emotion; the Malfoys were brought up to feel nothing but pride. Theirs was a family of respect and veneration. The degradation he now felt made him feel sick to his stomach and he cursed Lucius, wherever he may be, for this. And then he cursed himself for falling for it all. For upholding his so-called father with such reverence whilst he sunk the family name further and further into the mud. For the Dark Lord, making puppets and mockeries of them for, as he now saw, his own great ego. And himself, for turning his back so completely against his father, for becoming such a conflicted wretch of a person as he now was.

Potter hopped off the windowsill and Draco panicked for what to do. He wanted to fade into obscurity and he couldn’t do it if Potter wanted to revisit old times and start up on him. What was he thinking, imagining that Potter would be able to leave him alone this year? He probably felt sick whenever he looked at him – Merlin knows Draco could barely look at his own self in the mirror. But Potter swept passed him and returned to his room.

It felt like a punch in the gut. Of all the things Draco could have imagined, to be outright ignored stung with a severity that shocked him. Potter couldn’t even face him, probably didn’t even deign him worth his notice. Why was he surprised, Draco was nothing but a cowardly lowlife, not worth the title of Malfoy, of Slytherin, of-

But then Potter was back, and taking Draco’s hand in his own, and placing something in it. Draco’s wand, the one that he had thrown to him during that battle, the one that had sealed his fate completely. Draco looked down at it, once so familiar but now an alien thing. When he made no attempt to move, Potter pressed Draco’s fingers down to clasp around it.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked.

Potter pressed both his hands to cup round Draco’s again. This time, as if a current had run through him, Draco withdrew his hand quickly.

“Why are you giving this to me?” he asked again, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Potter pointed at him with a disbelieving look. He wasn’t speaking? He couldn’t even _speak_ to him? For some reason, where only moments ago he was feeling disgusted with himself, now Draco found this thought immensely irritating. He thrust the wand back.

“I gave it to you. It’s yours, fair and square.” When Potter made no effort to take it back, Draco grit out, “I don’t _want it_.”

Potter shook his head and took a step back. And then something very strange and unexpected happened. He smiled.

Draco was knocked completely off-kilter. Potter was smiling at him – and not one of derision, no, those he was used to – but this was a proper, true, somewhat lopsided, somewhat shy, thankful grin. Since when had Potter ever been _shy_? The git was arrogant, everyone knew that, strutting about the castle like he owned it. Everyone knew that, both Snape and Lucius had drilled that into his head over and over. Except, even now Draco knew himself that that wasn’t exactly true. But it had always been much easier to accept that Potter was the egotistical, conceited, haughty, supercilious Saviour of the Wizarding World who believed everyone else was beneath him, than to think that he had refused Draco’s offer of friendship when they were both eleven because he thought Draco was…

Well, probably what Draco thought Potter thought of him now. Except that wasn’t true, was it? Potter didn’t smile in a genuine way like that to people he thought beneath him, did he? Did anyone?

And then, just to throw more turmoil into Draco’s already tumultuous mind, Potter walked past him, patted his shoulder awkwardly, then left to go back into his room.

Draco sank back into the armchair. A part of him was sneering at himself at acting like a soppy character from the Victorian era, but he reasoned with himself that no one else was in the common room, and so if he wanted to have a complete melt down in peace he was perfectly entitled to do so.


	3. Chapter 3

Madame Pomfrey was probably the greatest witch in the entirety of Hogwarts. Draco hadn’t necessarily thought so before but in light of recent events, where the foundations of his entire belief system had been shattered to millions of pieces from beneath his very feet, he was open to revisionism. He had visited the Hospital Wing the morning after his peculiar run-in with Potter and delivered his mother’s letter. He had half-imagined being greeted with a sniff and look of derision as she shooed him away – Merlin knows he had bothered Pomfrey for a myriad of inconsequential reasons when he was younger. But to her credit she had taken the letter, nodded at him in that no-nonsense way that he remembered, and scheduled him in for one night of magically-induced sleep every week for the rest of the foreseeable future, starting that night. Honestly, Draco regretted being such a melodramatic brat. Add that to the list of things to hate himself for.

He woke better rested than he had felt since… well at least the past few years. Maybe since fifth year? He couldn’t remember anymore. It was still one day before lessons were to start proper and he had asked Pomfrey if he could come again the next night, but she had warned him in no uncertain terms about the dangers of such. Too much magically induced sleep could become an addiction for some, and there was always the chance that reliance could cause a wizard to slip away into an incurable sleep until their body completely wasted away.

“Once a week of closely-monitored sleep for a set period of time is enough; any more is a death wish, Mr Malfoy,” she had cautioned.

He thought it best not to tell her that he wouldn’t have minded.

*

McGonagall called a special meeting for the returning eighth years, the Sunday afternoon before classes began. They met her in her old office, which, since she had now moved to the Headmistress’s office and thus was more-or-less empty, had enough space for them. Harry was thankful for this; he wasn’t sure he was ready to come face-to-face with either Snape or Dumbledore just yet, paintings or not.

“I trust you have all settled in well to your new dormitories?” she began.

They all muttered their assent.

“We had hoped to make things as comfortable for you all as possible; all Hogwarts staff had a hand in providing something towards it,” McGonagall smiled serenely. “As thanks for everything you students have done for us, and for the school.”

The eighth years smiled at her variously, but once again no one spoke. The smile slipped off McGonagall’s face to be replaced with a concerned frown. Then, with a deep sigh she raised her wand. The bare room suddenly popped into life, plushy armchairs akin to those in the dorms appearing, nudging into the students’ knees so that they all collapsed backwards into them. Once all in the room were comfortably seated, a house-elf appeared with a tray of butterbeers and a platter of snacks for them all, handing them to the eighth years who took them in confusion.

“This isn’t meant to be an interrogation,” McGonagall said once they had all settled back. “There are just a few things I would like to discuss with you all. Before Hogwarts reopened its doors, the staff here all discussed the safeguarding of its students. We are all of the opinion that, whilst the majority of the violence may be over, there may well still be repercussions to the events that happened last year.

“For one, we predict some tensions between the houses. The rearranging of the Great Hall was just the first step in remedying this, but I am under no illusion that this will be all that is required. There will still be friction, and unfortunately, anti-Slytherin sentiment will still be rife.”

Malfoy, Greengrass, Goyle and Zabini all straightened at this, their faces grave.

“Naturally,” McGonagall continued. “There will be those who remember the salient role Slytherin played in the defeat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, with the cavalry who returned with Professor Slughorn, many of whom still attend the school, as well as more... particular instances of bravery. However, it would be naïve to think that tensions will settle into the dust just like that.”

Harry’s heart sank. Whilst the wishful, optimistic part of him had hoped that, with Voldemort gone, things would be better from now on, he had never been able to quash that tiny, nagging feeling that this would not be the end of it. Shacklebolt was now in the helm of the Ministry, and the summer had seen reformation that was both just and swift, but even Harry wasn’t naïve enough to think that this would be it. Ministry corruption had been insidious and deep and, just like after the first time Voldemort had risen to power, there were those who fled and those who begged torture or that they were imperioused. Truthfully, most of those who they had managed to charge were those who remained steadfastly loyal towards Voldemort – like the Carrows and Lucius Malfoy – or those who had behaved so hideously that no amount of begging could absolve them.

At this, he thought of Umbridge’s trial and that hollow feeling of grim satisfaction he felt when she was sent down. He saw this now-shell of a woman, weeping and sobbing into silken pink gloves and felt the ugliest feeling of pity for her. She had been a veritaserum case; the Ministry had passed emergency legislation for the wide encompassing use of the potion in order to send as many Death Eaters and supporters to Azkaban as possible, but the fall out was still so fresh even that wasn’t enough. Then, there were talks from those who wanted to disperse the dementors altogether, those who thought the punishment would then not be severe enough, and from those who wanted to but needed to think logistically on how to get rid of the dementors with the least amount of harm to the rest of the British population. And this was all running through a skeletal Ministry, whose resources and money had been gutted during Voldemort’s reign.

Two months clearly wasn’t enough and although no one had been under any pretences that it would be, it was all just so overwhelming that Harry felt unable to keep up. He felt like he had been running on nothing but adrenaline the past year or two and his reserves were running dangerously low – a mild addiction to Invigoration Draught notwithstanding. He, Ron and Hermione had helped where they could, the latter two far more than Harry had to be fair. It seemed that, in the absence of Harry’s usual verve, they had taken it upon themselves to advise the Ministry’s proceedings. Hermione no one was surprised by, brilliant witch that she was, but Ron showed a remarkable aptitude for tactics and organisation that had brought proud tears to Molly’s eyes. Harry didn’t know why anyone was shocked; had none of them ever seen Ron play chess?

It seemed that no one saw them as children any more but as hardened war heroes, and now, coupled with the fact that they were all past wizarding coming-of-age, they, alongside the rest of Dumbledore’s Army, became the new wizarding order’s guiding lights.

Neville, for his part, had seen the sense in this.

“We were born and we lived under Voldemort’s shadow every day of our lives,” he had said, a few of them scattered around the booth at a pub one day. “The older generation proved to be kind of naïve and catastrophic. I think they’re hoping that we’ll lead them just because… I don’t know. We won’t pretend like everything’s okay.”

“What,” Ginny replied. “They like us because we’re cynical?”

“Maybe.”

“Merlin, that doesn’t say much about this glorious new dawn.”

“Doesn’t it?” Luna said softly. “I don’t think it’s because we’re cynical. It’s because we’re optimistic. No matter what happens, we will always keep going and try to make things better. And not just make things better for us, but for everyone. Plus, I don’t think any of us here will hold grudges, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked.

Hermione picked up here. “Well I think, whereas before people turned to harsh justice – like irrevocably sending whole families to Azkaban, for example – I don’t think anyone here has the enthusiasm for that kind of reformative justice anymore, do we?”

“I dunno about that,” Ron sniffed. “There’s a fair few who I wouldn’t mind locking up and throwing away the key. That prat Malfoy for one.”

“Do you really mean that?” Hermione queried, turning to him. Ron was silent for a beat.

“No. No you’re right. It just seems so… petty, now, doesn’t it? People are dead.” Here his voice cracked, surprised at his own slightly-tipsy honesty, and Hermione pressed her hand to his knee. “It just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. We’ve just been fighting for so long and honestly I’m ready to just go home and, like, I don’t know. Eat mom’s dinner.”

“Drink her special hot chocolate – the one where she puts those enchanted marshmallows in that dance on the surface and change taste when you eat them,” Ginny grinned.

“And go hunting for crumple-horned snorkacks with father,” said Luna.

“And see my parents,” Neville had whispered quietly.

They all fell silent after this.

“What I mean is,” Hermione ventured eventually. “That we need to keep the adults in line. The ones who have made the decisions for us and we’ve had to follow blindly along because… well, I guess that’s all we’ve known. So we’ve just charged forward and followed traditions because that’s just the way things are, I suppose. Like with the house-elves-”

“Oh blimey, here she goes,” Ron muttered to Harry, who smirked.

“They only worked in servitude because that’s what wizards have been doing for centuries, and they were considered stupid and beneath us, little more than slaves, but we know now that that’s wrong. Kreacher and the other Hogwarts house-elves played a crucial part in the battle. Kreacher himself in finding the locket. And if it wasn’t for Dobby-” she caught her breath here. Her voice shaking, and with a furtive look at Harry, she continued. “The three of us would be dead. Things need to change.”

“And do you think we should be the ones to change them?” Neville asked.

Hermione paused, and after a moment said, “No. No I don’t think we should have to. But knowing us, we’re going to do it anyway.”

And here, that was what McGonagall was now saying. In a way, Harry found it extremely refreshing that she was being so open and logical about the situation. It did make him feel more hopeful that she was at least acknowledging it - that was a damn sight more reassuring than what people had done in the past. However, it also brought into clearer light what they had all been dreading: that it wasn’t really over.

“I am not,” McGonagall said. “Expecting anything earth-shattering from you all. Merlin knows that every single one of you have given far, far too much already. What I ask from you now is co-operation.”

“Co-operation, professor?” Pavarti repeated.

McGonagall nodded. “It is not enough for me to say that I expect allies and friendships made along House lines. This needs to be done in practicality, too. Students need to see each other reaching out and making these connections, and who better than you, who I believe the _Prophet_ has already dubbed the, what was it again, the Wizarding World’s Guiding Lights?”

A few of the students groaned at this.

“Alongside: beacons, luminaries, brave war heroes, the pioneers of a new era – et cetera et cetera,” Ron said sardonically.

“Speak for yourself,” Zabini snorted, though not unkindly. Ron glanced surprisedly at Zabini, a little look of slight amusement.

“Which is why,” McGonagall moved on, observing this with a small smile. “I have elected to create a new senior system for the eighth years. The prefects and the Head Boy and Girl will remain, but you will all be considered a role above them. You will have the same powers of taking and giving house points and giving detentions as you see fit, though I hope no one here will be immature enough to misuse this power.”

“Of course not!” Hermione said sincerely.

Daphne smirked slightly, but then addressed McGonagall, “What would our duties be, professor?”

“Like the prefects and Heads, you are to look over the younger students and to ensure the safety of our school. I want you to protect all students as much as possible, especially from inter-house fighting,” she replied. “The crucial difference however is that you will be paired for the year with a student from another house in order to best embody this new school sentiment.”

“But, professor-” the students all started, though Justin got there first.

“You have all been through a war,” McGonagall said sternly, quieting them immediately. “I am sure a little inter-house cooperation will not kill you, considering you all fought alongside each other in some capacity.”

There was a beat, and then Ron muttered, “Way to pull the ‘war’ card there, professor.”

McGonagall smiled slightly, “Whatever do you mean?”

“So,” Hermione said, getting down to business. “Do we choose our pairs, or do you, or…?”

McGonagall waved her hand and an ornate silver goblet floated down in front of her.

“We’re going to draw names?” Hermione said.

“Indeed. One at a time please.”

The eighth years exchanged trepidatious glances until, with a roll of her eyes and a huff, Hermione stood up and drew her name.

“Daphne Greengrass,” she said, unfurling it. To both her and Daphne’s credit, neither of them let any unpleasantness show on their faces.

Ron drew Zabini, which proved the universe had a sense of humour. Neville drew Hannah Abbott (earning a delighted look from both), Padma drew Goyle (less delighted) whilst Pavarti drew Justin (both looked at each other and just shrugged). Then, with an exaggerated show of saying goodbye to each other, Dean and Seamus drew Susan and Anthony respectively, to all four’s satisfaction.

The universe really did have a sense of humour. Everyone turned to look at Harry and Malfoy, some wincing and some trying to supress their laughter. Malfoy turned to face Harry evenly, and when neither of them made an attempt to move, got up to draw out the last name. He turned to face them all as he unfurled it, ‘Harry Potter’ written there, clear as day.

“Well,” Malfoy said with resignation. “Can’t say I’m surprised really. The world does like to conspire against me.”

Silently, Harry agreed. He wasn’t really sure why, but he would have been more surprised if he hadn’t got Malfoy. He wondered if McGonagall had rigged this – that wouldn’t have surprised him either.

“You’ll have plenty of time to talk to your new partners later,” McGonagall said as Malfoy returned to his seat. “There was another thing I wanted to speak to you all about, too.”

She waited a beat for all attention, then continued, “I am under no illusion that this war will have affected all students – and staff for that matter – deeply. I have hired, therefore, three new staff members to join Madame Pomfrey in the medical wing.”

At this, she waved her hand and the door behind her opened. Three people entered: a middle-aged, kind-looking woman with dark hair and eyes; a young person with curly, bright red hair and a surprising number of piercings for a teacher; and a man in an unfussy suit that looked quite muggle in his surroundings.

“These are Dr Jasdeep Slinkhard-Kaur, Dr Paracelsus Keddle and Dr Robert Haugen,” McGonagall said, introducing them in that order. “They are mind healers, and will be part of a new initiative that I am establishing in Hogwarts.”

“New initiative?” Susan asked.

“All students will have a weekly meeting scheduled with a mind-healer. There will also be opportunity for voluntary group meetings for the younger years; for you eighth years, Friday afternoons will have an hour allocated for mandatory group meetings.”

“You’re putting us in _therapy_?” Zabini asked, scandalised.

“I know wizarding culture has traditionally stigmatised mental health, and our usual way of dealing with our problems is to be quiet about it and drink potions to keep ourselves going, but that is not a sustainable way of living.”

“But, professor,” said Anthony. “You’re making us go?”

“Attendance for the group meetings is mandatory but participation is not,” Dr Keddle piped in. “At least for the first six weeks. After that, it’s up to you if you attend, though obviously the hope is that you will.”

“The weekly sessions aren’t even for therapy,” said Dr Slinkhard-Kaur. “Think of them more like… weekly catch up sessions. We can meet, you can get anything off your chest you might want – or even, chat about the weather, work, Quidditch, whatever you’d like. Kind of like a diary.”

“We’ve had trouble with diaries before,” Ron said suspiciously.

Dr Haugen spoke now. He had a gentle voice, like a kindly grandpa's. “It’s understandable to be sceptical, and that’s okay. These sessions won’t be for everyone. And it’s just six weeks – if, after those you feel like you are not getting anything useful out of them, then that’s fine. You don’t have to keep re-attending.”

“Apart from the group sessions,” McGonagall said. “You all have gone through so much. It is important that you speak to each other – support each other in these difficult times to come.”

“Professor McGonagall,” Neville said. He had been looking pensive during this entire conversation. “Would it not be more logical for the past members of Dumbledore’s Army to be attending these group sessions too? The ones who haven’t graduated, I mean. Luna and Ginny fought in the war too, and the three of us kind of spearheaded the DA when these three weren’t here.”

The professors exchanged glances.

“Of course,” McGonagall said. “If we have group consensus. If everyone consents as such, then we will.”

Considering all those present apart from the Slytherins were former members of the DA, they readily agreed. Daphne did too, and Zabini and Goyle gave noncommittal nods. Malfoy was the only one to hesitate. Eventually, however, even he assented.

“Excellent,” said McGonagall, clapping her hands. “The first session, I believe, will start on Friday, and be run by Dr Haugen. Your individual times will be allocated and written into your timetables, which you will receive this evening, ready for your first day of lessons tomorrow. Any further questions? No? You’re free to go then. And again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all.”

*

That evening, when the students received their timetables, out of the envelopes fell little badges. The Hogwarts crest, all four colours bright and bold, the word ‘captain’ emblazoned across it. Seamus and Dean had laughed about the new title whilst pinning them ceremoniously to their school robes.

“A little trite,” Hermione had smiled. “But an important responsibility nonetheless.”

The three of them sat by the autumn window. The trees were in glorious shades of amber and gold and the sunset cast a soft reddish glow on their faces as they talked. It was really all kind of beautiful and serene; the juxtaposition between now and summer felt slightly jarring to Harry, but he tried his best to ease into it like his friends.

Ron nodded over to where Malfoy sat, a little away from the rest of the Slytherins. Malfoy had his new badge in his hand and was turning it over and over, had been for the past twenty minutes, his eyes glassy in the firelight.

“What do you think his deal is?” Ron asked.

Hermione looked over, thoughtful, “I suppose this is just as hard for him as us. Maybe even harder.”

“You think so?”

“Well, unlike us, he wasn’t always on the right side of the war. I mean, we know now that it was all just a survival instinct, but I can’t imagine him being… _comfortable_ here, you know?”

“His tosspot of a father sure did a lot to bring public opinion round for him and his mom.”

“Sure, but his tosspot of a father was also the one who Malfoy used to admire and look up to and, really, just want to desperately make proud. To be publicly disowned like that, in such a horrible way. Couldn’t have been nice.”

They all lapsed into a contemplative silence at this, before turning the conversation to their classes tomorrow.

Later that night though, as Malfoy was just about to climb into bed, a letter was shoved under his door.

With a quick scanning charm to make sure it wasn’t hexed, he went over and opened it. It was anonymous, and sounded a bit like the awkward, midnight ramblings of someone who had never communicated with another human before in their life, but strangely, it did make it easier to rest that night. It read:

_‘It might feel like complete and utter crap right now but it’ll get better – that’s been my experience, at least. It helps when there are people who've got your back. And you actually do, you know? I do. I never did thank you for what you did, did I? You saved my life. Thanks. A lot. I mean it. And it’s good to have you here. I mean that too. Anyways, hope you sleep well. Good night.’_

Malfoy was clever enough to have worked out from this intellectually genius code who had written it, despite its anonymity. The cynical, guarded side of him wanted to pull it apart, examine it, figure out what on earth Potter was trying to achieve - but tonight? Tonight, he was happy to let that voice in his head settle down for a bit. Maybe he could get through this year then, after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little side note: I hate writing dialogue. Huh.


End file.
